The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
Here passes the squire on his brother-his horse;
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse;
But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air!
There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care.
The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
For sweet consolation to church I did fly;
found that old Solomon provèd it fair,
That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care.
I once was persuaded a venture to make;
A letter informed me that all was to wreck ;-
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.
'Life's cares, they are comforts"- -a maxim laid down By the bard, what d'ye call him that wore the black gown; And, faith, I agree with th' old prig to a hair;
For a big-bellied bottle's a heaven of care.
ADDED IN A MASON LODGE.
Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow,
And honours masonic prepare for to throw;
May every true brother of th' compass and square
Have a big-bellied bottle when harassed with care.
Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade,
A SWEETHEART still I had aye.
But when I came roun' by Mauchline toun,
Not dreadin' anybody,
My heart was caught before I thought,
And by a Mauchline lady.
LUCKLESS FORTUNE.
OH raging fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O!
Oh raging fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O!
My stem was fair, my bud was green,
My blossom sweet did blow, O;
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,
And made my branches grow, O.
But luckless fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low, O,
But luckless fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low, O.
THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.*
THE Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decayed on Catrine lea,
Composed on the amiable and excellent family of Whitefoord's leaving Ballochmyle, when Sir John's misfortunes obliged him to sell the estate.-B.
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,
But Nature sickened on the ee.
Through faded groves Maria sang,
Hersel in beauty's bloom the while,
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang,
Fareweel the Braes of Ballochmyle!
Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in with 'ring bowers,
Again ye'll charm the vocal air.
But here, alas! for me nae mair
Shall birdie charm, or flow'ret smile:
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,
Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochinyle!
I AM A SON OF MARS.
TUNE-Soldiers' Joy.
I AM a son of Mars, who have been in many wars,
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come;
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench,
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum.
Lal de daudle, &c.
My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breathed his last,
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram ;
I served out my trade when the gallant game was played,
And the Morro low was laid at the sound of the drum.
Lal de daudle, &c.
I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batteries,
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb;
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me,
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum.
Lal de daudle, &c.
And now though I must beg with a wooden arm and leg,
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum,
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my callet,
As when I used in scarlet to follow a drum.
JOHN HIGHLANDMAN.
TUNE-O an ye were dead Guidman.
A HIGHLAND lad my love was born,
The Lawland laws he held in scorn,
But he still was faithfu' to his clan,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.
Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman!
Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman!
There's not a lad in a' the lan'
Was match for my John Highlandman.
With his philabeg and tartan plaid,
And guid claymore down by his side,
The ladies' hearts he did trepan,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.
Sing, hey, &c.
We rangèd a' from Tweed to Spey,
And lived like lords and ladies gay;
For a Lawland face he feared none,
My gallant braw John Highlandman
Sing, hey, &c.
They banished him beyond the sea,
But ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.
Sing, hey, &c.
But, oh! they catched him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast;
My BAN upon them every one,
They've hanged my braw John Highlandman.
Sing, hey, &c.
And now a widow, I must mourn
The pleasures that will ne'er return;
No comfort but a hearty can,
When I think on John Highlandman.
Sing, hey, &c.
I AM A FIDDLER.
TUNE-Whistle o'er the lave o't.
LET me ryke up to dight that tear,
And go wi' me and be my dear,
And then your every care and fear
May whistle owre the lave o't.
I am a fiddler to my trade,
And a' the tunes that e'er I played,
The sweetest still to wife or maid,
Was whistle o'er the lave o't.
At kirns and weddings we'se be there,
And oh sae nicely's we will fare;
We'll bouse about till Daddy Care
Sings whistle o'er the lave o't.
I am, &c.
Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke,
And sun oursels about the dike,
And at our leisure, when ye like,
We'll whistle owre the lave o't.
Ι am, &c.
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enrolled
In many a noble squadron:
But vain they searched, when off I marched
To go and clout the caudron.
I've ta'en the gold, &c.
Despise that shrimp, that withered imp,
Wi' a his noise and cap'rin',
The budget and the apron.
And tak a share wi' those that bear
And by that stoup, my faith and houp,
And by that dear Kilbagie,
If e'er you want, or meet wi' scant,
May I ne'er weet my craigie.
And by that stoup, &c.
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